


Remedy

by lyricalsoul



Series: Hiatus [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Granada 'verse - Freeform, Lestrade has a first name, Lestrade is extremely helpful, M/M, the shameful afterglow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:36:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after. Poor Watson. Poor Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remedy

I wake up in a strange bed. In an equally strange room. The angle of the rising sun is wrong, and the bedding is too rough to be on the bed I share with Mary. I blink the sleep from my eyes, and sit up, noting with alarm that I'm shirtless. Further inspection reveals that I'm also without my trousers and my underpants.

 

Stark naked. "Dear lord," I whisper.

 

I vaguely recall Lestrade inviting me to this…place; I recall drowning my sorrows in a bottle of fine scotch… but nothing more.

 

"You're awake. Good." Lestrade hands me a cup of coffee, and sits down in the armchair near the bed. "You snore like a pen of hogs."

 

"So I've been told," I say, blushing furiously. "I, uh…" I sip at the hot coffee. "Th-thank you for the coffee, Lestrade."

 

"My pleasure," he says with a smile. "Though, perhaps you should call me Gus, given the circumstances."

 

"Goose? Like the fowl?"

 

"Like Gustave," he corrects. "My name."

 

"Oh. I didn't know."

 

"You thought it was 'Inspector'?"

 

"No." I duck my head. "Holmes never mentioned it, and I never really asked."

 

"Ah, well, Mr. Holmes was never big on first names."

 

"No, he wasn't." Gulping down the remains of the coffee, I set the cup on the night-table, and clear my throat. "Well, I, ah… Lestrade… Gus… Lestrade… what, ah… what happened?"

 

"Well…" he clears his throat and tugs the dressing gown across his bare chest self-consciously. "You were crying in the middle of Baker Street, and were nearly run down by a milk cart. Twice. Then you tried to hit me. I offered you a bit of comfort. You accepted. We came here, drank an ungodly amount of scotch, talked, drank more scotch, and then you told me about you and Holmes."

 

"I what?" I strive for an indignant tone, but it comes out more a squeak. "Surely I did not…?"

 

"You most certainly did. You told me that you had just become… that it was still new, and you had only been intimate once, and then he…" He looks at me. "Your words, not mine."

 

"Yes, yes," I say quickly. "And then what?"

 

"You leaned on my chest, and began to cry. And I started stroking your hair, then your back, and one thing lead to another… and here we are."

 

"I, ah… that is, remember bits and pieces of it, but not all. I'm sorry."

 

"Unnecessary, Doctor."

 

"John," I correct. "Under the circumstances."

 

"John," he repeats. "I know I was a poor substitute. But I didn't mind, really."

 

"I am rather embarrassed." I toy with the edges of the eiderdown covering my waist. "Did you… was I… good to you?"

 

"Quite," he says with a laugh, then sobers. "Even if your heart does belong to Sherlock Holmes. You made that rather clear."

 

"I'm sorry." I look around the room. "I should… I need to get home. Mary will be worried."

 

"Your clothes are in the wardrobe there." He pats my thigh gently. "You've nothing to be ashamed of, John. Grief does things to a man… I've seen it many times."

 

"But I'm sure you're not usually so… helpful."

 

"Of course not. But you are an attractive man, and I had wondered…" He trails off, and smiles again. "Should you ever need a shoulder to cry on… you know where to find me. Even if it's just to talk. I know how much you loved him, and how much you miss him."

 

"Yes." I give him a small smile. "Thank you… Gustave. And I'm sorry the… events of last night aren't clearer."

 

"I shan't hold it against you. There's a hot bath in the other room whenever you're ready." He eases out of the chair and leaves the room.

 

"Damn it." I lean back against the pillows and wonder just what the hell I've done.


End file.
